Page 30 of City of Love

He shakes his head—something he seems to do when he’s amused. “That would be nice,” he says ruefully, and he takes a step closer to me. “But it wouldn’t quite work like that.”

“Hmm,” I say, thinking. Noel watches me with interested curiosity, as though he wants to see what I come up with.

“Well, maybe—” I begin, but he cuts me off with three abrupt fingers to my lips. Slowly, he shakes his head.

I swallow as my pulse trips, and I can feel the gentle callouses on his hands when I speak. “I’m not a child, Noel,” I say softly. My words are somewhat muffled, but he understands me, because he nods.

“I’m becoming more and more aware of that,” he says slowly, his eyes flitting intently over my face.

Not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t ask. “So you can’t just make me be quiet.”

“I understand that.” He drops his hand, his fingers brushing over my lips as he moves, and instead he cups my face. He does it with ease, as though it’s something we’ve always done. But when he meets my eye, I can see the question there—he’s making sure I’m okay with the way he’s touching me. I nod imperceptibly, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

“You can tell me anything,askme anything—just not this,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Please. Because if you do ask questions, I’m not going to answer.”

I sigh, because I’m the nosiest, most curious person to ever grace this earth, but I nod. I’m only half paying attention to his words, anyway; I’m fairly certain we’re having a moment right now, and he doesn’t even notice.

I, on the other hand,notice. How can I not? He’s like six inches away from me, looking all handsome and smelling delicious. But maybe he’s immune to me?

Huh. That could be it, actually. I only just found out he’s a guy, but he’s known since the beginning that I’m a girl. If he was ever going to develop romantic feelings for me, it would have happened by now. So, yeah, that’s probably it. He’s immune. Which would also explain how easily and naturally he seems to touch me.

“Lydia?” Noel says, and with a start I realize I haven’t answered him yet.

“Yes,” I say with another sigh. “Okay. I won’t ask.” I hesitate, biting my lip as I rethink that statement. “Or rather, if Idoask questions, I understand that you probably won’t answer.”

“Not justprobably,” he says, leaning in a little, his hands still cupping my face. His voice is barely above a whisper as he goes on, “Idefinitelywon’t answer. No matter how nicely you ask.” Then his eyes flick to my lips.

Normally when a man looks at a woman’s lips, he’s thinking about kissing her. That’s just the way it is. But that’s not what Noel’s thinking. Because when his eyes dart to my mouth, he doesn’t exhibit any of the other signs of attraction—licking his lips, pupils dilating, leaning closer. None of that.

Nope. He just frowns. Not at me; at mymouth.

Like it’s offended him. Like it’s an irritating bug buzzing around his head.

Before I can ask him what that look is all about, he drops his hands from my face and steps away. “Are you ready to go?” he says.

“You’re the one who needed to come here,” I point out. “I’m just waiting on you.”

He grins and nods once before opening his front door, gesturing for me to go first. As I pass by him, I stop, inhaling as I catch his scent again. I frown slightly, thinking, before turning and pressing my nose into his shoulder and taking a deep breath.

Noel looks down at me with a vague look of both amusement and confusion. “What could you possibly be doing?” he says.

“I’m smelling you,” I say, my cheeks heating as embarrassment creeps in. Still, I do it again, letting my gaze linger on his chest now rather than meeting his eye. “And trying to figure out—oh!” It clicks in my mind as I’m finally able to identify that scent. “Pine! It’s almost woodsy, but darker, somehow. Not quite like a Christmas tree, but more complex. Like how I imagine the Pacific Northwest smelling. Pine and earthiness and rain. Am I right?”

I look up at him again, and he cocks one brow.

“Yes. You’re right,” he says, the corners of his lips twitching. He looks impressed. “And I’m glad to hear I don’t just smell like a Christmas tree.”

I smile at this. “You know, I read an article once that said that French people find a signature scent early on in life and then stick to it forever. Is that a thing?”

Noel snorts. “No idea. I’ve used the same scent for years, but just because I like it.” He shrugs. “If I found something I liked better, I would switch.”

“Hmm,” I say, thinking. “Maybe I should find a signature scent while I’m here—”

“No,” Noel says quickly, cutting me off.

I raise my eyebrows at him, and I’m gifted a rare glimpse of blush staining his cheeks.

“You have a problem with that?” I say.

---